The King and the Soldier
by EleniDalby
Summary: Moriarty starts writing to John after the Richenbach. Drabble for now, may develop depending on what you guys think.
1. Chapter 1

Dear John,

Don't be so sad, it's so boring, don't you think?

It was all a dance. It had all been a glorious, wonderful dance with pretty pretty lights and carefully sought out music - I was particularly proud of the sirens, thought they added a nice touch. It's all about touches, little things that normal ones don't notice. Or the good ones either. I thought Sherlock would have noticed the little packet in the back of my hair, carefully hidden there but then I guess he was more distracted by imagining the noise that his brilliant head would make as it hit the pavement. Splat or squish?

Sorry, sorry...too soon?

Anyway, a clever, clever little friend of mine rigged that little gun - your Sherlock was never one for violence really, was he? Not inflicting it himself anyway, he seemed to enjoy it happening to other people after all. A nice little bang and all I had to do was fall back and think of England. The fake blood stained my best shirt. Pissed me off a bit actually but what can you do? Sometimes one has to suffer for one's art. Or make someone else suffer. Which is preferable, lets face it.

So, basically, I'm back. Fooled you. Did you think you were safe?

What could I want, you're probably asking yourself about now (am I right, Johnny boy? Did I get it right?) what could I possibly do to you now that you've lost your BFF? Oh I've watched you mope about John - the limp's back again, I noticed, it doesn't suit you but neither does that hideous jumper - watched you avoid the flat, watched you avoid going even anywhere near the place where he fell, where the Richenbach _did_. Does it hurt, John? Do you still tear up? Get a lump in your throat?

How are the nightmares coming along?

Why am I doing this to you? Because it's as close to fun as I can get with him gone, John. We should get together some time; tea, scones, the whole sh-bang. Wouldn't that be just lovely? Just darling? Just cozy? Me, you, an open fire, a cold body at our feet...

Oh, by the way...I have your sister, John...quite the talker, isn't she?

Ta ta!  
>Love<br>Moriarty.


	2. Chapter 2

John,

Honestly. What did he see in you?

Ok, I will give you a point for originality. I didn't actually think you'd punch the Iceman. That was impressive, all the way back, shooting from the hip...play it again, Sam. All your weight into one calculated, nicely articulated, discombobulating blow. Nice. I appreciate art, after all. Doncherknow. But why did you call him up and ask for help if you didn't want him to meddle? He won't find her by the way, I've made sure of that. He's good, the only remaining Mr Holmes, good but not me. Naughty, Johnny, naughty, no punching the grown ups.

I know you'll give him this to read - Mr Holmes, you should really loose weight, comfort eating doesn't suit you. Take up a hobby. That little brunette you cart round with you would do if you could get her to let go of that phone for five minutes. Or not. Whatever yanks your chain.

Anyway back to Johnny's sister. She's a scream, isn't she? Not a bad looker either. Now here's a girl who knows how to have fun. Wouldn't have thought she had anything to do with stiff-upper-lip John-boy unless I'd read her birth certificate. Which I have. Your's too John. Hamish? Really? Were your parents sadists or what? Oh wait, no, they're dead. Poor Johnny, left to raise little sister all on his own. Didn't do a very good job did you?

Is there anything she won't do for a drink?

Did you like the scarf I sent you by the way? Still smells of him a bit, doesn't it. Wasn't it boring though? He never seemed to wear anything other than black, grey or a bit of blue here and there. That purple shirt was sexy though, sweetheart, should have stuck with that in my opinion. But then, it's here, on my lap as I write.

Still haven't been back to the flat, have you. Isn't Mrs Hudson a sweetheart. I could just...eat. her. alive...

Ta-ta!  
>Jim<p>

* * *

><p>Moriarty<p>

_What the fuck is wrong with you, you sick, twisted little man._

_What the fuck do you want from me?_

_Give her back you bastard._

Mycroft said we should open up negotiations. What do you want?

Dr J. Watson


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Johnny,

Watch your language, naughty boy, what would Sherlock say?

Does it still hurt to hear his name?

Don't worry, it won't for long. This isn't about you anyway.

So, Hobbycraft wants to know what I want? Good question. I want a pony. I want the opposite of world peace, I want a box of matches and the key to all the petrol stations on the planet for a nice little game of blow-it-up bingo. I want you Johnny boy and I want Sherlock.

Ok, no I know you're looking at the crumpled and, probably, torn piece of paper in your hand (bit of a temper tantrum when you got it, hey John?) trying to wrap your tiny, mudane little mind around what I just said, right? Sherlock. He didn't play by the rules, he didn't do as he was told and he cheated in the game. That calls for a little punishment, don't you think? Children can be so naughty...

No, he's not rotting in the ground, no, worms haven't started to eat those lovely dark eyes, his curls haven't crumbled to dust and those strangely attractive lips haven't peeled back to reveal yellowing teeth. You're a doctor, you must have thought about how he'd look as a corpse?

Anyway, you can put those nightmares to rest, he's not dead. I know it. You know it too, don't you, deep in your soul, it's why you've had such a hard time accepting it. Oh yes, we both know about the so called "stages of grief" one of them being denial. It shouldn't have gone on for this long, though, should it Johnny boy...he's still out there.

There's only one reason though, that I can think of that he hasn't come back to play. It begins with a J, ends with a n and has "ohn Watso" in the middle. Can you guess what it is yet?

He's protecting you.

He thinks that if I think he's dead, you'll be safe. He thinks I wouldn't come after you. He was never really sure that I had died, not really - somewhere in the back of that funny old head of his, he's worked it out. He's like me, you know, just like me. Isn't that just great? Just fun, just peachy?

So the answer is you. John. I want you. In exchange for your charming sister. I'll give her back, good as new, fresh out of the box...well, nearly good as new. I can't be a good guy _all_the time, now can I? Hmmm...

You know where to find me, you really do.

Love  
>Jimmy.<p>

* * *

><p>John screwed up the piece of paper for the hundredth time and threw it at the wall with impotent rage before sitting down hard in the soft chair behind him. His hands fisted on his forehead as his teeth gritted. There was a hole in his jeans, he was focused on it intently, trying to stop himself from picking at it which was proving an adequate distraction from actually <em>thinking<em> about what he was supposed to be thinking about.

"He has quite the morbid sense of humour, doesn't he?" Mycroft said in his soft, authoritative tone, exhaling gently as he bent down to pick up the crumpled letter and smoothed it out. John bit his lip, knowing that swearing at Sherlock's older brother wouldn't help the situation. In an odd sort of way it hurt to look at Mycroft. There was something, just something about him that reminded John too much of...

"Do you think he's right? Do you think Sher...Sherlock's alive somewhere?" He asked without looking up, having to swallow hard in order to say the name.

"He seems to think so." Mycroft's habitual frown deepened as he scanned over the letter, holding it by one corner as he passed it to one of the dark suited men who waited nearly invisibly nearby. "Where-"

"I don't know." John snarled, propelling himself out of his chair. "What the hell does he mean, you know where to find me?" He began pacing, aware the whole time of Mycrofts cool gaze on him. It made the back of his neck itch when he passed too close "If I knew I'd have-"

"No, you wouldn't." Mycroft said gently, "You're not a man to kill in cold blood." John stopped pacing, fists clenching and unclenching sporadically as he stared at the carpet, fairly sure he could bore a hole through it with the strength of his gaze. A thought, just the ghost of an idea started to crawl around the inside of Johns mind. Mycroft seemed to understand because he stopped asking questions and seemed to be trying to keep himself as still as possible. John looked up slowly, as if frightened that moving too fast would dislodge the idea and it would be lost.

"I think I know where to find him."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: - I am so sorry it's taken this long to update. Really. But thank you for reviewing!

Chapter 4

The wind was up today, reminding John that he really needed to get a haircut as strands of sandy blonde blew into his eyes. Personal grooming had fallen by the wayside in the past handful of months however, nothing had really seemed important. He shoved his hands deep into his pocket and gritted his teeth, trying to tell himself that it was just a rooftop, just like thousands of others in the City of London, nothing special about it other than it was the top of a hospital. _The_ Hospital. St Barts would have been among the last things that Sherlock had seen before...John clenched down on that thought, not allowing himself to go there even though he was morbidly drawn to the ledge of the roof. He leaned over slightly and looked down, the updraft of air from the City below was startlingly warm. He'd had nightmares about it but John had never quite realised just how high up Sherlock had been when -

"I'd be careful if I were you. I hear the first step's a doozy." Moriarty's voice, hollow and low as it was when he was trying to be funny, caused John to spin round. He didn't wobble. The man of his nightmares, one of the dark stars of his dreams, hadn't changed a jot. His clothes were still the best of the best, his hair was still neat to the point of obsession and his eyes were still empty and full of demons. The pair started circling each other. John had too much to say, he didn't quite know where to start so he kept quiet for a moment, jaw clenched so hard it made his teeth hurt. They stopped, mutually, John with his back towards the doorway he came up through, Moriarty had his back to...nothing. _Just one push, just one quick, sharp push would be all it would take and it would be over...but then -_

"Where's Harry?"

"Harry? Oh you mean little Harriet?" Moriarty shrugged, looking like a slightly rebellious teenager. "I dunno. Somewhere in Hawaii last I checked. Lucky for her and Clara that she 'won' those tickets, hmm?" He half sang, half spoke, voice pitched a few octaves above normal. Not that there was really anything normal about the villain. John's ears started to go red.

"You never had her, did you?" He sighed, feeling embarrassment - of all things - curling hungry and red in the pit of his stomach.

"Nah." Moriarty's head slid listlessly from side to side, a faster version of a lizard. His dark eyed gaze flickered over John's shoulder and the grin widened. "Naughty, naughty, Ice-man." John resisted the urge to turn round.

"I'm sorry, John. We knew your sister was safe from the second you got that letter." Mycrofts voice, steady and low as always held not a single note of regret.

"You...you were using me." John stated, betrayal creeping closely on the heels of embarrassment. "You needed me to get to him. To Moriarty. To you." Jim nodded.

"I'm sorry, John."

"I must say, considering you're supposed to be the good guys, you're not very good are you?" Moriarty smirked, gaze darting between the pair.

"You bastard." John breathed, not entirely sure who he was addressing the insult to. The man who had strapped a bomb in front of him and played him like a puppet or the man behind him, who had strapped him into an unwinnable situation and played his emotions like an instrument. "You bastard." Moriarty grinned and looked down, one had disappearing into the perfectly tailored lines of his jacket and coming back with a gun. He held it professionally, coolly as though it really was just an extension of his arm, but there was a certain disdain in his expression as if he would have preferred not to get his hands dirty. The muzzle swung, hypnotically between Mycroft and John, back and forth, almost lazily.

"If this is what it takes to get Sherlock out in the open then I am ready to go to war over you John." Moriarty's tongue peeked between his teeth as he grinned, "doesn't it just make you feel _so _special, Princess?" John bristled but refused to move. Out of the corner of his eye he could see men in night gear, undoubtedly Mycrofts people, creeping closer across the rooftops. Moriarty started to walk towards John.

"No, that's enough. Let him go." The voice, John's heart stopped in his chest, his breathing ceased and his head tingled. It was not unakin to the beginnings of fainting. His eyesight went fuzzy. In fact, every inch of him, every molecule and atom was straining to hear that voice again, to acknowledge that it was true, he wanted so badly for it to be true. "Let him go, James. I'm here." John gulped at the air and span round, staggering slightly, going down to one knee and uncaring of the gun trained on him and the noise that escaped was akin to a sob.

It was one of two times that John was to see Mycroft loose his rigid self control and he shouldn't have been surprised that it was Sherlock that caused it. The slap that Mycroft delivered was enough to make Sherlock have to step back to keep his balance, when he straightened Mycroft's fingermarks were emblazoned in red across one pale cheek. Sherlock's head jerked, a curt nod passed between the two, a signal that this could wait until later. For the first time Sherlock's eyes met Johns and John's world went black. Because of the shock, the strength of the _relief_ coursing through his body, John didn't fight against the cloth bag over his head, even the alien feeling of course cotton against his lips as he sucked in air wasn't really registering.

"Uh, no, I don't think I will." Moriarty smirked, reaching down and dragging John, hooded as he was, to his feet again. "See this-" Here he shook John's arm, causing him to stagger a little. "-is the only reason you've even come out to play."

"If you take him from me, Moriarty, there is no place you could go. I will hunt you down." Sherlock's voice wasn't trembling, neither was his body, his gaze - intense and dark as always - didn't waver, only the wind whipping his hair and biting at his coat proved that he wasn't an immovable statue.

"Yeah, sort of counting on that." He glanced over his shoulder, a helicopter was approaching at top speed, flying low over the rooftops.

"We have anti-aircraft missiles positioned around this entire area, Mr Moriarty, you will not get within five meters of this building." Mycroft said coldly.

"No, you do? Really?" Moriarty drawled sarcastically and, with dramatic flare practiced by actors everywhere, he snapped his fingers. On a rooftop a mile and a half away there was a dull thud and a cloud of black smoke and flames belched towards the sky. "Bombs are flying, people are … dying." Moriarty grinned, one side of his mouth quirking up slightly as his head tilted. The hand holding the trigger was as steady as a rock. He had to yell above the noise of the aircraft as it landed on the roof close by. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes glittering. "Come on." Jim patted his thigh, as if Sherlock was a dog. "No? Don't fancy a ride? Oh well then, come on, Johnny-boy, you'll do. For now." He jerked John's elbow hard, forcing him to either climb into the helicopter or break his legs against the side of it. "You've got to see this, this bit is going to be so cool." John blinked against the suddenly bright, painful light as a hole was ripped in the bag. he didn't have time to recover as his head was smashed against the glass door. With his face pressed painfully hard against the glass of the helicopter John got the full view of the explosions that shook the building below. He squeezed his eyes shut and rammed his elbow backwards, catching Moriarty in the throat. A normal person would have recoiled under the assault, a normal person would have reached for his injured throat and choked. Moriarty proved how very not normal he was by juggling the gun in one hand and hitting John with the handle with enough force to send him ricocheting around the enclosed space of the cabin. The bag shifted, blocking his sight out but John felt a heavy, impossibly strong hand around his throat as Moriarty rasped in his ear before delivering a second blow that sent the world spinning away,

"Goodnight, Johnny-boy."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: - Sorry it's been so long. Computer troubles._

Chapter 5_  
><em>

"We found the anti-aircraft guns on various rooftops around the scene." Mycrofts voice was heavy and Sherlock knew the look on his brother's face. How could he not when he had seen it so very, very often?

"They were dead weren't they? The operators of the guns?" Mycroft, even though he was taller, had to do a hop-skipping run to keep up with his younger brother as they walked.

"Yes. Sniper. An incredibly _good_ sniper." Mycrofts frown deepened into worry. Ah.

"Good enough to evade your people." Sherlock stated, watching the barb sink in deep. Mycroft nearly blushed with embarrassment which meant, simply, that his people had no idea who the assassin was. They pushed through the doors at the same time and heads turned to them. "Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock snapped at one of the faces that turned towards them. Sally Donovan's jaw dropped for a fraction of a second before a scowl took over her face.

"Should have known you wouldn't have the common decency to stay dead." She murmured, arms folding across her chest almost defensively. "Were you in on this one?" She jerked her head at Mycroft who smiled unpleasantly at her.

"Still as breathtakingly charming as ever, Sally. Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock smiled at her and it was very nearly a _real_ smile.

"Look, you can't just walk in here after being, well, dead for so long and -"

"Yes I can, ah, hello Lestrade." Sherlock's smile really was genuine this time, not the tight, awkward one he used to make people think he was normal. Lestrade glanced up and squeezed the plastic cup of machine coffee hard enough to make it spray over the desk of the person he was stood beside as he came through the door.

"Oh." His brain seemed to catch up with his eyes and he yelled, backing into the door he had just come through. "OH!"

"He's not dead." Sally scowled and Lestrade relaxed.

"Right, obviously. Yeah. How?"

"Not important right now." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Moriarty has John."

* * *

><p>"Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!" John gasped against the icy cold water that splashed over his face and chest, soaking him in an instant and panicking a little that he might be drowning before his sleep-fuddled mind caught up. He blinked against the murky light, focused and wished he hadn't. Moriarty's face wasn't too far away from his own and grinning, mad light sparkling in his eyes as he screwed the lid back on the top of a plastic bottle. "Mineral water, only the best for you, Johnny-boy." He winked and sat back. There were two men either side of John, keeping him firmly in place not that it was really necessary with his hands grip-tied behind his back. His fingers were hurting so that meant he had been out long enough that the circulation was being compromised. He hoped he wouldn't have any permanent damage.<p>

"Where am I?"

"Back of a van." Moriarty shrugged one shoulder. What did that tell him? Not much. Just that they were on the move - he could tell from the minor bumps and vibrations but, oddly, he couldn't hear the noise of the engine which probably meant that if he screamed no one outside would hear him either. A cold sweat trickled down the back of John's neck. Opposite him was the man who had strapped him to a bomb, a man who had threatened his best friend on more than on occasion, a man who had, despite Sherlock living, caused his downfall. "So, then." Moriarty spread his hands apart. "What can you tell me about Sherlock?"

"Jonathan Hamish Watson, Captain. 301958127." John parroted back, voice low and calm and Moriarty grinned.

"You're not in the army anymore John, do you _reeeeally_ need to do the whole name, rank and number bit?" John's jaw flexed and he stared fixedly at a spot on the wall about six inches to the left of Moriarty's head. "Oh alright then."Moriarty huffed, as if caving in to a child. He nodded to goon 1 on John's left and John found himself roughly turned, bracing for a punch that never came. "If you try and hit anyone in here you'll be dead before the next heartbeat." Moriarty drawled, watching as a flick knife worked quickly on John's bonds.

"What?"

"There's a bomb. It'll go off in about, oh-" The slender Irishman checked his wristwatch and pulled a face. "Five minutes and it's down to you to see if anyone survives." Moriarty reached into his pocket for a mint. "I'd hurry up and decide though because nail bombs can be a bit tricky to time. All that metal interferes with itself. It's all complicated and boring, I'm sure you don't want to know. Mint?" The car came to a halt and Goon 1 and 2 behind John.

"What? I -" He staggered out into the light, blinking and fighting off a blinding headache at the sudden rush of noise and fresh air.

"So, you can either..." Moriarty dragged his words out as if he really was considering Johns options, as if he didn't already know what they were. "Run and save yourself _or_ you can call the police and inform them of exactly what's going to happen." He smiled but, as usual, it didn't reach his eyes. The van door rumbled shut, smoke pouring from the wheels before it screeched off, easily lost in the jumble of London traffic. john was left alone, spinning on the spot and unable to hear much above the roar of his own adrenaline, coursing through his system.

"Aah God." He panted through his clenched teeth. Opposite him was a phone box, a red pillar of hope...or was it? Nothing was ever simple with Moriarty.  
>Around him were people, normal, unassuming, everyday people. Some had the cast of locals, their air of leave-me-the-fuck-alone was palpable and the charity workers - all smiles and too-friendly banter - kept well away from them. There was a woman with a pram, a strained smile on her face as she tried to comfort the screaming toddler within. A boy on his mobile, looking bashful, blushing despite the smile and stammering through sickly sweet endearments that John half-caught as he passed by -<p>

"-no you put the phone down, peachy-pie-" John was unaware of spinning slowly, trying to see _everything_ all at once but never really looking away from the jam packed cafe. Run or stay? Flee or rescue? It couldn't be so simple, it just fucking couldn't. The clock was chiming and almost without the intervention of his brain, John started forwards towards the phone box, dodging between the traffic. Without thinking he yanked open the door, saw the red wool that strung the door to the side of the box and flinched back as it exploded. He peered through the gap in his fingers and laughed with sheer relief. A tape recorder was on top of the phone, playing the sounds of an explosion at full volume, a sign, like one from the old comics, the real comics, had unfurled, partly, from the roof coloured a bright red with the word 'bang' in big blobby lettering.

"Moriarty, you bastard." He reached up and turned the recorder off, pocketing if as evidence later. Sherlock would probably be able to tell what hat Moriarty's grandmother was wearing from it or something. John heaved a sigh, staring at the phone for a moment. Sherlock. There was a whole mess of stuff he just didn't want to go into right now. He braced himself, mentally sorting out what he was going to say to the woman on the phone so he didn't sound like a total nutter and picked up the receiver. He picked up the receiver and broke the near invisible sky blue thread. Behind him, the world shattered.


	6. Chapter 5 (and a half)

"Hmm." Sherlock didn't turn round from the still smoking remains of the wall he was facing. "Maybe we should teach him the meaning of subtly when we get him back." Mycroft coughed into a handkerchief in a way that could only be described as genteel, an elegant display of his distaste for being out. In public. Sherlock swallowed against the urge to do likewise, trying to breathe through the dust and debris that still floated in the air.

Despite the carnage, the noise of the ambulances, fire crews and news teams (the vultures come to pick over the bones of the recently dead), Sherlock was finding it insanely easy to focus on the wall. It wasn't particularly different from its few surviving neighbours, if it wasn't for the words "JoHnAtHAn Watson" sprayed in fifteen foot tall bright blue letters it wouldn't even have been noticeable. It was meant to be John's handwriting, his sensible round letters, slightly scrawly because of years taking notes during medical lectures but the curve on the 's' was all wrong and then, of course, there was the fact that two h's an two a's had been capitalised. HA-HA. Hilarious. Really.

"It would be greatly appreciated." Sherlock murmured, stepping back to take a picture and send it off with the words '_What do you see? SH_.' "Also, if you'd be so kind, figure out how to stop him murdering people? Maybe?" It was cutting he knew but he felt Mycroft deserved it. Mycroft deserved everything. Hadn't he left John in his hands? Mycroft didn't reply, merely pursed his lips and looked down at the blackberry in his hand.

"I don't get it." Lestrade frowned, strolling over with his hands in his pockets and kicking at the debris with the tip of his shoe. "Why blow up a cafe in Greycoat Street?"

"He wanted to see how close he could get to the yard." Sherlock frowned against the light.

"So this is a message? No one's safe in their beds type of thing?" The detective shook his head, looking at the remains of what was once a very nice little corner of London.

"It's not just a message, it's a letter, he's saying so much with one little bomb-"

"Only you could call fifteen dead "little"." Donovan snapped, stumbling over the debris on her way past.

"When Moriarty has it in his power to blow up half of the UK, yes, by comparison, this is little." Sherlock snapped back, feeling marginally better for doing so. He looked down as his phone bleeped at him politely and read, '_big, blue, words. Cobolt blue, Halfords. Car paint. Sorry. Looks like someone's laughing you'_'.

"Alright, alright." Lestrade, the peace-keeper, murmured quietly, making a gesture that sent Sally Donovan away, far away. Sherlock frowned, pressing his fingertips together before touching them lightly to the centre of his forehead.

"You'll have to forgive my brother for being more eccentric than usual." Mycroft cut in smoothly, managing to look directly at Lestrade whilst watching his little brother pace at the same time. "He's just beginning to get the hang of feelings." Sherlock shot him a look of pure poison. "Excuse me. Feelings for people _other_ than himself." Mycroft corrected, feeling nasty.

"If I recall correctly someone once told me that feelings are a disadvant-oh!" Realisation made Sherlock take a step backwards, swaying as if he'd been physically shoved. "Oh god, I know what he's doing, why didn't I see it before?" Sherlock made and impatient gesture, elegant long fingers splaying towards the sky above. "It's so obvious." He was close to biting his knuckles in irritation.

"Share, Sherlock, they can't all keep up with you." Mycroft's words were half an order and he didn't flinch when he was rounded on.

"Moriarty is breaking John, don't you see it? John's a good man, a _hero_-" The emphasis Sherlock put on the word was almost distasteful. "He still gets nightmares about all the people he could have saved in Afghanistan. Innocent life is all but sacred to him. Moriarty's trying to make it so he just doesn't care anymore." Sherlock turned away and both Mycroft and Lestrade were grateful that they couldn't see his expression. "He's going to break him."

"Why?"

"Because he can, because John's good and Moriarty's rotten to the core, because...because..." It looked like Sherlock was choking on something.

"Because it will hurt Sherlock." Mycroft cut in smoothly. "You may have noticed my brother isn't the most relaxed of people. It makes him difficult to have friends but John has stuck with him through a ridiculous amount of nonsense." Sherlock glared, trust Mycroft to make a friendship sound like a weakness.

"Wait, wait. So, you're saying, in order to, um, break John, there's going to be more bombs?" Lestrade asked, a little bit of panic lurking in the back of his frown. Sherlock turned on his heel, grit growling beneath his boot and coat flaring as he did so, his eyes were wild.

"No. Yes. Maybe. It's Moriarty. It could be bombs, it could be bodies, murders, rape, torture - what makes your soul shrivel the most?" Sherlock sighed heavily, tilting his head back and feeling the breeze on his face. "I need to go back to the flat."

"Shall I accompany you?" Mycroft offered, brushing a speck of dust from his spotless coat.

"I can handle Mrs Hudson on my own."

"I never said you couldn't."

"I'd appreciate the company." Mycroft nearly took a step back at that. He stared at the back of his little brothers head as they walked towards the immaculate car, noting the slightly reddened ears and the tapping of two elegant, bow calloused fingers. Sherlock was nervous.


End file.
